


Bardd

by BluWacky



Category: Preiddeu Annwn | The Spoils of Annwn (Poem)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluWacky/pseuds/BluWacky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Until Judgement shall last our bardic invocation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bardd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raspberryhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberryhunter/gifts).



Three fullnesses of Prydwen stood on the border of death, our vessels stilled upon the shores of Annwn.  We marched in unison; the sand, crystalline and glassy beneath our feet, crunched, a sound taut and tight as the skin of a drum or the string of a lyre. An alien taste lay on our tongues; an alien voice spoke in whispers on snatches of breeze.  “Men of Prydain,” the winds would call, “turn back.  Your wives await you; your sons and daughters grow without you.  There is no place for them here.  There is no place for you.” 

The cliffs twisted; the trees shone; the sky boiled. Upon the shores of Annwn, the sails and waves billowed.

Still we marched, three fullnesses of Prydwen, our Lord Arthur as leader.

“Remember,” he shouted, to inspire the hearts and minds of men he knew grew more fearful by the second, “we come for life everlasting. We come for might unstoppable. We come for Peir Annwn!”

This was no place for mortal man to tread, perhaps even for a man such as Arthur.  We privately muttered and exchanged glances.  Were we not already a mighty force?  Were we not already respected and feared?  What need had we of this device he sought?  Tales were told of Peir Annwn, tales beyond belief; of resurrection, of inspiration, of acts that no mortal could comprehend achieving. We were military men, or at least pretended to it; the red dragon upon our banner was a symbol. Arthur had spoken of feats we could only imagine, but that was where they remained – in imagination.

Still we marched, three fullnesses of Prydwen, our Lord Arthur as leader.

We did not see it at first; it seemed a trick of the light, that cold, orange light that never went out over Annwn. No-one saw it at first, in fact.

“There is something here,” Gweir said, amidst the rank and file.  “Do you not hear it?”

The replies were dismissive.  How could they not be?  Gweir was no soldier, just a foundling who had spent the voyage vomiting over the side of the ship; his armour lay wide upon his scrawny frame, his voice echoing inside the metal awkwardly.

Yet Arthur called for us to stop, his outstretched hand a signal.

“Who speaks?”

“Gweir, son of Gweiriod.”  His voice cracked, nervous and youthful.  “My Lord.”

Arthur’s voice was kind, kinder than the thoughts his men held.  “What do you hear?”

“A melody, my Lord.  There is music strange and eldritch on the air in Annwn, and I feel the call to return home.  But this is different.”  Gweir stepped forward. “I am no bard, but there is something ahead and it sings to me.”

No doubt, the murmur arose again, the boy was deluded.

Then we realised.  Something must have changed.  Perhaps the land itself willed us to notice it, this foreign land of shifting mists and misshapen fauna. 

Something shimmered in the air ahead.   Something vast, that blocked our onward travel, that rose up into the sky.

Gweir moved forward, as if drawn in a trance. He placed his hand upon the air itself.

“What is this?” Arthur called to him. “What is this wall of glass?”

“There is no glass here,” Gweir called. “There is but water.”

“It is too warm for ice, Gweir son of Gweiriod, even in this place of magic.”  Arthur held the men back.

“Not ice, my Lord. Water.  It stands as ice but ripples as water.  Wherever the light touches it curves and bends as if to show me every angle of this world.”  Gweir gazed, almost enraptured.  It seemed as though a fog cleared from the minds of all those present, and it became obvious what stood there – a vast cube of water, defying all we thought possible, stood in perfect place without receptacle or binding.  

His hand sank into the water. His arm sank into the water. His body sank into the water.

Gweir son of Gweiriod vanished, and the cube turned to ice.

I hear stories of those who were driven mad almost immediately, their minds shattered by events they could not comprehend, already tilting at the edge of madness from the strangeness of the land of Annwn. Others fled purely through fear, chasing the way they came, only to lose their way as if the earth itself had shifted to hide their passage, never to be seen again by their families and loved ones. Annwn is a barren place to those who should not be there.  Sometimes things find a way of appearing that should not – and things find a way of disappearing, too.

Others remained, bewildered but not cowed. They readied their shields and swords; they steeled their minds.  They shook in fear as one.

Arthur stood firm still.  Caledfwich lay at his side, hilt gleaming in the odd light of Annwn. His brow shone with sweat as his hand tightened to grip his sword. As he drew it the blade flashed; as he struck the ice time upon time upon time he called out to Gweir, son of Gweiriod, and to the land of Annwn.

The ice yielded to Caledfwich, splintering and crumbling to allow space for a man to push through the waters that now churned violently behind it.  Caledfwich shone with holy light, parting the waters for Arthur to make passage. There were those that tried to follow, loyal to the last, drowned in their own folly, crushed by the waters that would not cease for them, bones broken and battered.

There inside, amidst the raging waves that tried to buffet him, lay the great Peir Annwn – the Cauldron.  It bucked and tossed against the water, chained in irons that clung to the ground and groaned from the effort.  Before it stood Gweir, son of Gweiriod.  He moved as though one of the Fair Family, as though the waves did not affect him and as if he, too, was tethered to the ground, slowly stepping through towards the Cauldron.

“Turn back, son of Gweiriod!” Arthur called, his voice magnificent above the roaring water, Caledfwich ablaze. “The power of Peir Annwn is not yours to handle!”

Another voice rose above the waves, no less commanding but female, not male. “Away, son of Uther Pendragon.  Was it not enough when I bestowed Caledfwich upon you, forged in the very heart of the cauldron you now seek?  Such presumption!  Peir Annwn is the source of whatsoever your heart desires; even you are too earthly for such power.”  The Lady spoke, and Arthur shuddered as he moved forward.  “You still yet wish for mastery over death?  Let me show you what it is capable of!”

A hideous wailing arose from the Cauldron. It vomited forth an army; an army of tattered and withered flesh hanging pitifully from greying bone, of armour still shining but dented and misshapen, an army that lurched forward towards Arthur. His own army, so recently lost, now returned against him.

Still Arthur stood strong against the undead forces he once led.  Still Caledfwich sang as it laid the skeletal horde low.  Still Gweir, son of Gweiriod, moved towards the vessel, unaware.  Still the Lady beckoned him onwards with her song that no-one else could hear.

The tides of war and waves held our Lord back too long. The foundling reached the Cauldron and with a great heave, still entranced, threw himself inside.

The cube and Cauldron rent asunder. Water spilled away in great torrents and huge chunks of ice cascaded down, crushing many of those who still remained. Arthur stood amidst the cascade of water, a look of astonishment upon his face.  Of Gweir there was nothing to be seen.  It was not long before the billowing sails faded into the horizon, and the men of Prydain returned to their own dominions.

The power of Peir Annwn, so they say, was gone, vanished from the great halves of iron that remained.  The power of one’s heart’s desires is limitless – the power of imagination.

Our Lord craved life everlasting for his warriors; a great man, but so limited in his outlook. Life everlasting is mine. I am song.  I am story.  I am not Gweir, son of Gweiriod.  I am Taliesin.

There are many tales of how I came to be. I should know – I have told them all. I do not know the tale of why the Lady chose me to weave words and melodies and conjure things beyond imagining. I do not know the tale of why she has condemned me to this beautiful prison, to howl my name to the stars with no reply, with no trace of me but through the voice of another. If I did, I would tell it.

Three fullnesses of Prydwen went with Arthur. Except seven, none rose up from my Fortress.


End file.
